Dust on the Sea (44 page)

“Sonar's on the escort, Captain,” reported Rich as he made his way back to the TDC. “Escort is already to the right of the target and seems to be passing well clear.”

Another imperceptible nod from the wolfpack commander. With the momentum achieved, the obvious step was easy. “Recommend two-thirds speed to get us around and clear the track, sir.” This time Rich did not wait, gave the order. The clink of the annunciators and Cornelli's report. Within seconds the “own ship” dial seemed to have taken on a bit more of life.
Eel
was turning faster. The slowly changing geometry of the creeping dials was now clearly becoming favorable.

“We're all ready to shoot aft, Captain, except for the outer doors on the torpedo tubes. Three fish. Tubes seven, eight, and nine. Depth is set at fifteen. Number ten is set at five feet. Recommend we proceed at this speed for five minutes and then slow to one-third again for an observation.”

“Very well,” said Blunt.

Again the hiatus, waiting, while the dials on the TDC face slowly turned, registering what the target would be doing if its course and speed were indeed those set into the instrument, and provided there had been no undetected change. At Rich's instruction, Stafford was giving regular reports on the doings of the escort and occasionally switching over to the main target, whose heavy single-screw beat was easily distinguishable from the higher speed twin propellers of her protector. If there were anything unexpected happening while
Eel
, because
of her increased speed, could not use her periscope, it did not show on the sonar bearings of either vessel. The continually confirmed fact added confidence, although Richardson could not recall when he had perspired so during an approach and attack.

“Five minutes since we speeded up. Five and a half since the zig!” Williams was reading the timer built into his computer face.

“All ahead one-third,” said Blunt.

Perhaps the bad moment was over. Rich felt like cheering. “When we get down below three knots,” he said, “recommend a quick check of the target and escort, then search all around for aircraft. It's just possible they'll have that patrol plane up here for when the ship rounds the point.”

Blunt was looking at him. It was the first time he had done so for several minutes, since before Rich had changed the helm order. His mouth formed words, but for a moment nothing came out. Finally he spoke. “What should the target bear?”

Again there was that feeling of unreality. There had definitely been a slight hesitation in Blunt's voice. Yet his question was eminently logical. It was what an approach officer should be asking, except that Buck Williams, at the TDC, or Keith Leone, backing him up, were those most likely to have the information at their fingertips. Furthermore, Blunt himself had just been looking at the instrument.

Richardson, simply because there was not room for more at the face of the TDC, had been standing one rank back. “About one-three-five relative,” he said. From where he stood he could not read the numbers on the dials, but from their relative positions this would be not far off. “We're coming up on the firing bearing, Captain. We can hurry it up and shoot with a left gyro angle on a sharp track; but the longer we wait, now, the nearer it will be to a straight stern shot on a ninety track.”

Blunt nodded thoughtfully. His face also was beaded with sweat. His bushy brows veiled the deep gray eyes.

“Seven minutes since the zig. Speed three knots.” Buck, reading his TDC.

Time to put up the periscope. For a dreadful second Rich thought he might have to initiate the action as before, felt flooded with relief when Blunt gave the order.

The periscope technique was perfection. Blunt rose with the base of the tube, stopped it a foot short of full extension, took a quick range and bearing of the target, then dropped it until its base was slightly below the top of the periscope well. He remained squatting before it for a few seconds, in the meantime directing the ship's depth increased
by another foot, then motioned for the instrument to be raised again. This time he allowed it to go to its full elevation, swiftly spun through two complete circuits—the second time Rich, watching closely, could see that he had turned the motorcycle-type control handle so that he was searching the sky—he suddenly stopped spinning the periscope. “Plane!” he said. “Bearing, mark!”

“One-seven-five,” read Rich from the azimuth circle through which the periscope tube passed out the top of the conning tower. “Two-two-five true,” said Keith, swiftly converting by adding the submarine's course to the relative bearing.

“He's well clear for now,” growled Blunt as the periscope descended. “Looks like a patrol plane, all right, coming up from the south. He's still pretty distant. It will all be over by the time he can get here.”

“Open outer doors?” asked Keith, once more going through his check-off card.

“Open the outer doors aft!” said Blunt. “What's the gyro angle now? How long before he comes on to a straight stern shot?”

“What's the escort doing, Captain?” Richardson's question was interrupted by a loud report from Stafford. “Echo-ranging has speeded up!” In a bound, Richardson was alongside the sonarman, looking at his dials. He put on the spare earphones, listened intently for a long quarter minute. Then he rose, replaced the earphones, was back alongside Blunt. “The escort's almost dead astern, Captain,” he said seriously, “and he's speeded up his pinging. He may have become suspicious. He's pinging right up our wake—I'm sure he can't be getting a good echo!”

“Gyros left twenty. Decreasing. Seventy starboard track. Range, twelve hundred!” Buck's concentration on the information showing on the TDC was reflected in his staccato report. “Correct solution light aft,” more quietly reported Keith. “About one minute until the gyro angles are zero.”

“Target bearing one-four-eight!” shouted Stafford. “Moving right, fast! Escort on one-eight-four, shifted to short scale! I think he has contact on us!”

Damn Stafford anyway! Why did he have to pick exactly this instant to become excited? Richardson swore to himself, forgetting that Stafford spoke loudly because of his earphones, and was doing his duty. Only the approach officer—certainly not the sonarman—could accurately evaluate the immediate significance of this information.

“Tubes seven, eight and nine ready aft,” reported Quin. “Outer doors are open, depth set fifteen feet.”

Keith was whispering something into his ear. “We've not yet finished
the rig for depth charge,” he was saying. Richardson was grateful to him for having had the good sense not to add this item to the plethora of information and reports Blunt was receiving. “Do it quietly, by phone,” he answered.

Blunt was standing with hands at his side, head bent forward, eyes staring at the floor. Afterward Rich would recall this moment as the moment of truth, the decisive one of the entire patrol, the instant of time which, ever after, in his mind was the watershed between the past and what was to come. “Recommend final bearing and shoot, Captain,” Rich said. “Gyros are approaching ten left. Range is twelve hundred.”

Blunt raised his head, stared at Rich. “Very well,” he said. Again, there was that hint of hesitation. “Up periscope!” The incisive manner of less than a minute past was gone. His hand was at his temples again. He did not stoop to ride the 'scope out of the well, merely stood before it, let it rise to him.

“Should bear one-six-six,” read Buck from the TDC. Rich twisted the periscope around to the bearing, at the same time noted that, in accordance with Blunt's long habit, he had left the previous range observation still cranked in on the periscope's range finder. Hardly anyone bothered to crank the observed range off the stadimeter after using the 'scope. This took time, required the periscope to stay up a trifle longer. The experienced approach officer was not bothered by the resulting split image at near ranges; in fact, it provided an instant visual reference as to whether the target was farther or nearer, even before the range was taken, and it made it easier and quicker to measure the range when desired. The procedure was part of Blunt's periscope technique which Richardson had adopted and in his turn had passed on to Jim Bledsoe, Keith, Buck and Al.

What was unusual was Blunt's reaction when he put his eyes to the rubber guards. “Dammit, Richardson, who's been fooling with the 'scope? Someone's got the wrong range on it!”

The range on the stadimeter was what Blunt had put on it last time the 'scope was up. No one else could have reached it in the bottom of the periscope well. It was off, but only because the range had lessened. Moreover, it must be very nearly correct, even though a minute or so had passed. With the target nearly broadside to, the range could not have changed much. On a ninety track—torpedoes due to strike at ninety degrees on the target's beam—it didn't matter anyway. Cautiously, Rich turned the range wheel, reduced the range another hundred yards. This ought to bring the tip of the target's mast about back to her waterline.

“Neh-mind . . . I'll do it.” It was the first time Rich had ever heard
Blunt slur his words in this way. “Range, mark!” The range dial at the base of the periscope opposite the eyepiece had not moved.

“Eleven hundred,” snapped Rich instinctively, reading the numbers opposite the pointer.

But then dismay gripped him, for Blunt, his hand still on the range stadimeter wheel, began turning it back and forth, moving the pointer over a range variation exceeding a thousand yards!

Time, which had been passing so slowly for the final minutes of the approach, now was moving with frantic speed. “Angle on the bow!” hissed Rich imperatively. “Are you on in bearing?”

“Starboard ninety. I'm on his stack. . . . What's wrong with this damn periscope? . . .”

No one had noticed anything. Keith was watching the angle solver section of the TDC, his right hand hovering over the firing key. Buck, beside him, was poised to set in the slightest change in the final bearing of the target. The proper thing to do was to push Blunt aside and take the firing ranges himself, but on a ninety track, range made no difference. The resulting bustle would only add confusion. “Mark the bearing,” Rich said loudly. “One-seven-two!” he read off the azimuth ring.

“Right on! Set!” Buck had not had to touch the TDC.

“Shoot,” muttered Rich into Blunt's ear. “It's perfect! Shoot now!”

Blunt's hand was still on the range wheel, still twisting it. He said nothing. In the split rangefinder view, the target's masthead must be moving from his deck to an equal distance below the waterline and back.

“Shoot!” barked Richardson. Keith leaned on the firing key. Larry Lasche began to count. In the after torpedo room there was the snap of the firing valve, the air-and-water roar as the impulse bottle emptied into the torpedo tube, the starting whine of the torpedo motor, the tiny jolt—less than it would have been from a forward tube—as the suddenly started torpedo was ejected. Then the additional slap as the poppet valve opened to swallow the air before it escaped, and the burbling snore as water, flooding into the now empty tube, jammed the air back into the tube and through the now opened poppet line into the torpedo room. A heavy splash as a cascade of water followed the air and landed in the bilges.

The chief torpedoman had not needed to follow through with the hand firing key. “Number seven tube fired electrically,” the torpedoman wearing the phones reported, pushing the button on his mouthpiece.

“Number seven tube fired electrically,” said Quin in the conning tower.

Three fish would be enough, had been already decided upon. “Eight fired electrically . . . nine fired electrically,” reported Quin as the sequential reports arrived in his earphones.

“Shoot!” said Blunt, still looking through the periscope. Keith looked back, startled, inquiring. Richardson made a motion of negation.

“Down periscope!” said Rich. Gently he pushed Blunt back, folded up the handles so they would not strike the edge of the well as the 'scope dropped into it.

“How long until the first fish gets there?” asked Rich.

“Twenty-five seconds more,” responded Lasche.

“Let me know at ten seconds,” said Blunt.

Again there was silence in the conning tower. The deed had been done. His face bubbling with sweat, Blunt stood in the pose so characteristic of him, hands on hips, waiting. Richardson, equally covered with perspiration, trickles of moisture running down inside his shirt, recalled his own habit of so many years before, in
Octopus
' conning tower. He picked up the Is-Was which had been hanging forgotten on its string around his neck, began setting it up for a collision course between the torpedoes and the target.

“Ten seconds to go.”

“Up periscope,” said Blunt. “She's a beautiful ship. Take a range—mark!”

“One-oh-five-oh,” read Richardson.

“Angle on the bow is port ninety. She's got a single tall stack, a large deckhouse, cargo wells forward and aft. Not more than six inches of her waterline is showing—probably loaded with cargo for the Kwantung Army.” Blunt had hardly finished saying the words when suddenly a thunderous roar shook the conning tower. “It's a hit,” he shouted. “A beautiful hit! Right under the stack! Smoke and junk is blown sky high! Oh, it's beautiful! He's a goner for sure! He's already listing over toward us! His back is broken!” Mesmerized, Blunt was staring at the damage. Again he had changed. The catatonic reflex had disappeared.